Ungroomed food and lawns R us.

While waiting for Gabe and his buddy Matt to enjoy the festivities at their second classmate graduation party of the season, Jeff and I took gustatory refuge in Edo Sushi on Reisterstown Road, just north of the urban congested part.

It was much more clean, attractive, and tasty than you might expect from a strip mall location, and--thanks to my iPhone Japanese dictionary--I learned something I should have known already but didn’t: Edo is a former name of what is now Tokyo.

Why is it that when I go in a Japanese restaurant I cannot bring myself to say “Hajimemashite” (a greeting,) or anything else more interesting that a mumbled arigatoo? It’s because I’m intimidated by my inadequacy in any foreign language, and all I can do is make up for it by scrawling something in hiragana on the merchant copy of the credit card receipt at the end of the meal.

I ordered Jeff a bento box. This was a mistake, and I realized that the moment I offered him the option, but by then he’d said “that sounds good, I’ll have that,” and I didn’t feel like doing any more pointed steering. But the upshot is that a compartmentalized tray of assorted sushi rolls, spring rolls, and skewered chicken is not amenable to his preferred method of eating. Here’s what he usually does with food: Rather than attempt the brain-jangling task of deciding what to eat first and sorting it from everything else, he mixes all his food into a hash, and shovels it in. This is only a slightly more intense version of how he’s handled food his entire life, but now he couldn’t distinguish a dragon roll from a slab of raw salmon to save his life, and just the presentation of it is clearly a mind boggler.

The server, being sharper than most, caught on quickly, and brought out a fork and knife, and I helped point him to one food after another, while stopping him from eating edamame, fibrous pods and all, five times. Finally I scooped them all up and shelled the beans onto a side plate, then returned them. Yes, I did manage to eat most of my veggie rolls in the meantime.

Next time I will remember. Donburi, “bowl of food.” It’s already in a pile. All you have to do is scoop.

The boys, meanwhile, had a nice time. It was in one of those houses, in one of those neighborhoods--you enter past a stately brick pseudo-gateway, boasting a name such as Hunting Prawn Estates for the Upwardly Exclusive, and coast up and down gently hilly drives, past vast acreages of grass which you’re extremely grateful you don’t have to mow. The houses are chateaus without the benefit of quality windows guaranteed to function well for more than 5 years, but that’s ok...because windows which open are not the point. Trickling fountains, vast foyers, and carefully groomed landscaping features are the point.

Plus, I freely allow as how people may spend their money and enjoy whatever aesthetic they wish. It’s not as if I, in all my homespun elitism (or is it anti-elitism?) am in any way self-actualized. ; )